Before the River Washes it all Away

the big fat idea is to have fun

even when the horse you're betting on is limp

or when i'm holding a knife to your throat

or when it rains on your sullen frangipani

fun's like a rare steak

sumptuous, big, 

sizzling.

Without fun the world will go mad

the moon will refuse her milk

and the sun his spear

And the mountains will burst out in glorious grief.

who wants that?

so, pay no heed to all the bleeding 

just raise your hands up in the air

clap

dance

laugh

love

make merry

because the heart needs a good laugh before if burns out.

..........

those sons of bitches better beware

i'm getting stronger by the hour

and i'm not going to make funny faces

anymore

self-pity is comforting, i admit

and solitude is beautiful too

but are they really strong enough

or beautiful enough 

to hit out at the sun 

the moon and the stars?

my big city is bleeding out here

don't you dare preach me 

the easy virtues of forgiveness,

am i clear?

for i am mad at the entire universe

inside and out

and that doesn't change anything.

...................

nurses of love

they come to me every passing day

with smooth motherly arms

and slender words of kindness

they feed me and bathe my heart

and they take good care of me

i stare at them with wide open eyes

and their shoulder-blades seem 

like easy highways 

that cut through mountains and valleys 

in moonlight

and their eyes seem like deep silent lakes

that's when i think of the solitude of the Universe

and how lucky i am 

to have them

tending to me

saving me from the sharks 

taking the knife off my hands

and sticking roses to my heart

yeah, all of us are not so lucky

to have nurses

who make you feel like you are 

not all alone

even when the stars are bursting out between your eyes.

i just wish i could have seen them naked.

.........................................

and then came the hours of clarity

cigarette in mouth, naked, deadbeat

she's gone

and so is her scent

and all that's left

is one impossible pass

to cross through

and survive

the world is a naked place

more naked than me

and more cruel than i can ever be

i hear trumpets

from rundown circus tents

and i lie down

drunk, 

dejected

thinking of sex

and of sweet mortality

go on, release the hounds on me

i don't particularly care

......................

big heart

big love 

big flowers

i'm a sucker for all that's big

and that's not necessarily a good thing

i've seen sunsets by rivers

and that means a lot.

and the whole world breaks

like treacherous phantoms

waiting

for me

to get it the big way

at last.

and then, the carnival shall be bold

brutal

and massive!

..........................

my body is better than

the body of each and every

poetry

i have ever written

or have ever deigned 

to write.

i love my body

with inappropriate flabs

warts

hair

and every other shit

you can ever imagine

or not-imagine.

it is big and strong

and sweat drips from it

every second.

Poetry, on the other hand

Can only be as good as i am

............................

grotesque, insincere

here i stand before you

wild enough for the tides

timid enough to trust

your every manoeuvre

so come on, 

take my hand

and forget about all the shit

that we have done to us

won't you, 

for a tiny flitting moment

forget the litany of these

urges

to fall apart

and close your eyes

and let me love you instead?

..................................

like a symphony, choked to abrupt silence

we walked down

the merry corridors of life

outside, the leopards of swift love

were waiting 

inside

the band was playing, 

loud enough

for voices of the moments

to drown

in illusions of a false 

becoming 

and of pastels

for tides

somewhere

monsters were raping the flowers

and this 

is a fake poem

.......................................

sobriety is really our worst prison

and love is a load of crap

that weighs our insides down

to the center of the earth

which is

very hot.

beer joints are better places,  

trust me 

they really are

......................................

five days of longing

and the earth’s drying up

already

ants are teaching

a dirge

for broken automobiles

to the mammoths.

The bones

have roots.

The sky

has wings.

here i am

inside a room with pink walls

and a white roof

thinking of kings and queens,

of deathchants for mockingbirds,

of appropriate love.

The orchestras are out in the streets

feverish, eternal,

raving, like children from broken

tombs

who gouge out eyes

of saints and monsters

and give them to the painters

for cheap thrills

you are gone

and all i am left with

is a blatant conception

of you.

Is this how it’s supposed to be?

love is the colour of a forest in rain

lavender is the colour of sadness

and the peacocks are sad tonight.

.........................................................................